


Apex Predator (kinda)

by Sybariticfanfiction (SybariticReyna)



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure if its actually romantic tbh, Multi, Pre-Relationship, death is bad at comforting people, he tries his best, i guess, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybariticReyna/pseuds/Sybariticfanfiction
Summary: The human gets injured and Death is worried and horrified. They bond.(The violence isn't rly graphic but I wanted to give everyone a fair warning. The injury isn't either but it is described a little bit)





	Apex Predator (kinda)

**Author's Note:**

> Humans actually have hyperactive healing, at the cost of having ugly ass scarring. Wounds that would kill other predators (or any animal really) will just put a human out of commission for a few weeks. 
> 
> plus given our natural inclination towards forming pack bonds with literally anything (other humans, dogs, horses, various other animals), even that wouldn't really slow us down bc the rest of the group will pick up the slack. 
> 
> humans are fuckin weird and arguably very scary. 
> 
> Death is starting to understand that
> 
> This was a request from a lovely fan of mine!! I'm always happy to do injury fics tho tbh. It's my weakness.

There is nothing quite like being smashed into a wall by a demon covered in spines.

You've _always_ hated these things, to the point that Death had caught on and begun teasing you over your "irrational fear of a low level demon". They're just so weird.

You aren't sure if the creature meant to body check you into the nearest wall, or Death shoved it away in order to give himself some space, but either way it _hurts_. There's no other real way to describe it. It simply hurts.

One shoulder cracks against the wall on impact, while the demon slams into your ribcage and abdomen. You suppose it's a small mercy that the demon seems just as startled as you are (or its dead, you can't really tell), because it doesn't spin.

You're absolutely certain if it started spinning you'd be fucked.

Then again, maybe you're fucked anyway. You purposefully neglect to look at your injuries as you shove the creature as hard as you can in an attempt to get it off. It lands on the floor in front of you, letting out a whimper that could've probably garnered pity from you, if it hadn't tried to kill you beforehand.

You move automatically, grabbing the "emergency Scythe" off your back and bringing it down on the demon's neck.

You're prepared for this. You've totally got it under control.

Okay, maybe that's a lie, but you did train for situations like this. Death isn't so prideful as to assume he'll always be able to protect you after all.

The hit lands, but the impact and movement of the strike nearly brings you to tears. Adrenalin, where the hell are you? You glance down, taking in the blood soaking your pants and your shredded shirt. _Ah. Yeah. That might just be the problem._

You feel surprisingly calm as you take in your injuries, the scythe landing with a metallic clang next to you.

The demon spines, while unsuccessful at shredding your insides, did leave gouges in your abdomen, most likely from the impact. One side is decidedly worse, but the other was slammed into the wall and your nondominant shoulder is already hurting something fierce. Your ribcage feels like its on fire, the heat making you restless.

You want to move, but the logical part of you says _that's a horrible idea, why the fuck would that help?_ Moving is the opposite of what you're supposed to do with broken ribs.

"Death." It's meant to be a plea for help, but your voice comes out strangely level.

The Horseman blocks a hit and glances your way, "Wh--" He cuts off, orange eyes narrowing. He growls _something_ , but it seems the sight of you like this has him too distracted to speak English.

The final demons are taken out in a matter of seconds by Death in his reaper form. No time for theatrics this time, it seems.

He yanks his cowl off as he moves towards you, he movements less startlingly graceful and more jerky that usual. He's panicking. Some part of you thinks that's some kind of accomplishment, getting Death to worry about you, but then again, you could've gone the rest of your life without seeing this if it meant being without this pain.

Death quickly puts an end to your mental debate by pressing his cowl against the wound and fuck, does that get your attention. 

The pain is like nothing you've felt, immediately bringing tears to your eyes. You recoil away from Death and cry out instinctively, your good hand trying to shove him away.

"Stop." He orders. "We have to get put pressure on the wound." You keep struggling feebly until he presses his mask against your forehead, repeating, "Stop." The mask is weirdly cold, enough to distract you from the pain for a moment. "Take a deep breath."

Doing as he asks sends another wave of pain through your frame, but the blurry orange gaze is enough to keep your grounded.

"Death." Your voice comes out as it should've the first time, broken and pleading.

"It's fine. You'll be fine." He seems to be trying to convince himself as much as he is you. "For now..." He pulls back, removing one hand from your person in order to grab one of his health potions. He doesn't bother explaining, only nudging your face up and giving you a pitiful amount of of drink. It tastes like pennies and something oddly citrusy.

"I don't think it would harm you to have more, but I'm unwilling to experiment." Death says, putting it away again. His palm is stained with your blood, bright ruby contrasting against Death's natural tone. "You may have more later." He says, completely unaware of your rather morbid acknowledgement.

"If I don't die." You hum.

His eyes narrow, "Shut up." He probably meant for it to sound like an order, but you can only hear panic. "What do humans do? Can you--" His eyes narrow when he grimaces.

"Make sure the wound is clean before we wrap it. If its deep enough and we've still got that repair kit, we should stitch me back up." You almost wish he'd let you see his face, if only to confirm how horrified he is by that response.

"Humans regularly _stitch their flesh back together_?"

"If done properly, yeah. It'll heal together." You manage a wain grin. "We're apex predators, Death. I know compared to the other kingdoms we're weak but on Earth? We are top notch."

"I don't doubt that," He says, moving to grab your backpack. "So, how do I?"

"You know how to tie fabric together?" You prompt, knowing damn well he does, in fact, know how to sew. He has a lot of obscure knowledge.

His eye twitches with irritation. "What are you going to do while I stitch?"

"Probably cry." You admit without an ounce of shame. "You should disinfect the needle and thread first also. Just use the alcohol." Sure, said alcohol was a gift from Ostegoth and is probably worth more than your college tuition, but you suppose the alternative is dying of sepsis.

He nods and does as told. "This is... Not what I had in mind for today." He says, glancing over at the dead demon.

"What, you don't like seeing my abs without all the skin in the way?" If not for the searing pain already dominating most of your abdomen, you'd poke at the wound just to prove your point.

"I prefer you not bleeding all over the place, actually." He replies dryly.

"Yeah, yeah." You try to laugh, but Death peeling away the shawl has you wincing. It hurts, of course, but its also feels really weird. The blood makes it stick to your flesh and the pulling is just... Gross.

"The bleedings mostly stopped." Death remarks. It's not very Death of him to try and be positive, so you appreciate the effort. He grabs the needle and you brace yourself.

"Please try to make the stitches even." You request, looking anywhere but down at yourself. Watching seems like it would be even worse. Besides, you already know you're going to look like a damn zebra when you heal. Or maybe not. What's got vertical stripes?

Death is oblivious to your mental debate, assuring, "Noted."

The first poke is barely there, the pain only resurfacing when he pulls the wound together. "So, how--" ow, fuck, fuck, fuck. You take a deep breath. "Got any stories to distract me?"

He's quiet long enough you think he's just gonna ignore you, but then says, "War used to follow Fury around like a duckling."

"Really?"

"He always tried picking fights with Strife when he watched him, and with me he'd want to train or talk about battles, before he was allowed to fight, at least. He used to talk more."

You can't help but tease, "Like you?"

"I suppose." Death may or may not pull a little harder than necessary on the next stitch, but it could your imagination. "But as I was saying..."

* * *

You sleep on and off as Death stitches and tells you stories, torn between wanting to hear the rest and giving into your heavy eyelids. Death makes you drink more of the potion when he's done with the main areas, and you guide him through cleaning the wounds again with a fuzzy head.

You know if you were to be given proper medical care, you'd be given donor blood or saline at the very least, but you can't come up with any on the fly alternatives. You doubt even non-anemic you could come up with something, actually. Especially given the resources at your disposal.

It only becomes glaringly obvious how much blood you've lost when Death starts feeling warm. You only wait until he's done wrapping your wound to snuggle closer. It's hardly a hug, considering how much it hurts to move, but you can still move your arms, dammit.

Death tenses up, but doesn't push you away. He actually winces when you press your icy hands against his ribs, but at least this seems familiar to him. "Bloodloss." He grumbles. "Do humans have any solutions to that?"

"Yes. But we don't have the supplies or a willing donor. What do nephilim do?" Your words come out jumbled, and some part of you briefly wonders what would happen if Death offered a transfusion. Would it make you stronger? Or would your white blood cells attack it? 

"Magic. But I don't know much about that type, and as helpful as my ghouls are..." At least he hasn't lost his sense of humor.

You hum. "Where's Dust?"

"Behind you. He found a spot to perch on the wall." He answers, glancing over at said crow. "Why don't you make yourself useful?"

You do wonder what Dust is supposed to be searching for as the bird takes to the skies, but he and his owner seem to have a unique way of communicating that doesn't require specifics. Dust just knows.

You're almost asleep again by the time the bird returns, cawing demandingly.

Death seems happy with that, at least. He leans over to pet Dust before returning to you. "Dust found a relatively safe place for you." He explains, giving you no warning before scooping you up.

"Death!" You snap, muscles tensing before you realize what a horrible idea that is. The backlash makes you grind your teeth.

"Relax." Death scoffs. "You're hardly heavy."

You try to take his advice to heart, but its hard to manage as he begins walking. "What exactly do you consider heavy?" The crushing weight of your guilt? War?

His eyes narrow, as if he knows you're thinking something snarky. "It's subjective." He says after its obvious you're not going to elaborate.

"Why don't we just visit the Makers?" You say after a moment, watching his eyes carefully. His body language is usually your tell, but being up in his arms mostly prevents that.

"I doubt they have any way to get you blood, but we will after you rest." He says decisively.

You nod and shift to lay your head on his shoulder. He's warm, but not quite comfortable. "Cool, cool."

He says something in nephilim, shaking his head.

"What was that?" You smile sleepily.

"I said you're even more trouble than the bird." He's such a terrible liar.

You glance over at Dust, flitting from one perch to another as he leads you to the safe place. "You would die for him."

"Death isn't very permanent for Horsemen." He shrugs, just enough to get to point across without hurting you. "We can be revived."

"That's not a denial." You say. You want to lean up and kiss his cheek, but any kind of abdominal stretching sounds like hell (and you've literally been to hell so. You would know).

Death takes a deep breath and sighs, as if completely exhausted by this conversation alone. "I don't know if I'm thankful you're so lucid or annoyed."

That's fair. "I mean. They're not mutually exclusive."

"Nor are they commonly associated with one another."

 _Neither are you and me_ , you start to say, only for a yawn to interrupt. You blink away the tears it causes tiredly. "I need a nap." You say, not quite an order and not quite a question.

"You can wait." He says simply.

You don't really have a reply for that aside from sending his profile a very disgruntled scowl. How rude.

He doesn't need to look over at you to taunt, "Make that face long enough and it'll stick."

"That what happened to War?"

His laugh is an awkward sound when its not mocking or that short bark like laugh. It's breathy and makes his whole frame shake (and its almost worth the pain that motion causes you). "Leave me brother out of this." He says and- _oh_ are you struck by the desire to see his face. You want to see the smile he's got. The smile you made.

Instead you settle for closing your eyes and asking, "I assume Strife is free game though?"

"That brother is fine." He confirms.

"Such blatant favoritism." You tut.

"He doesn't feel at home unless he's arguing. He'll love you." It's the he _will_ bit that you trip up on. The implication that you'll meet his siblings without a doubt. No if ands or buts about it. "Speaking of home." Death says, moving to set you down.

Your eyes fly open, finding yourself in one of the abandoned watchtowers (at least, you think that's what they were?). "You're closer to home than this place." You say.

It takes a few moments and one sharp glance from Death to realize what that sentence implies. "Uh, I mean." You don't _want_ to take it back. "No. I meant that. Completely. But remind me to kick my own ass when I wake up."

"...Likewise." Death doesn't elaborate any farther than that, whether he meant the first part of that sentence or the last (or maybe both), but you decide it doesn't matter much as your eyelids become uncomfortably heavy and Death lets you lean against him.

Dust settles into your lap after a moment, chirping demandingly until Death pets him. The whole scene is rather domestic, and you find yourself smiling. If only it were like this all the time, and not just when you're mortally wounded.

As if sensing your train of thought, Death says, "Go to sleep. We can't remain here long."

"Tell me another story. Just until I fall asleep."


End file.
